Just as the Leprechaun guards his pot of gold from rainbow-chasers, the Leperchaun flees the people who follow his trail of rotted-off appendages.
Why people would follow a trail of bloody fingers… toes… or worse, I have no idea.
Sometimes, it’s the police, After that John Wayne Bobbit incident, anything’s possible, really.
The dogs sniff out a trail, which leads to the miserable creature, hunched over a pot of glue.
With antibiotics, he can be cured of the horrible affliction. But the disfigurement is permanent.
With prosthetics and a 3D printed half-mask, he’ll still look like a goddamned Irish midget.
On the seventh day, God rested.
And God’s idea of rest is Texas Hold’em. (God created Texas and Texas Hold’em long before the first day.)
He brought the cards. Gabriel brought the snacks.
Since nobody had any money to bet with, Michael gathered up some animals to bet with.
Things got out of hand after a while. Gorillas lost their tails, dinosaurs were all killed off with the unicorns, snakes lost all their legs, and all kinds of other messes got made.
God swept the wriggling, writhing leftovers under the rug.
A platypus crawled out and slipped into a stream.
Sisyphus groaned as he leaned into the boulder.
The stone bit into his scarred flesh, blood welling from ancient wounds.
Just when he thought he couldn’t push any more, the boulder finally began to move uphill.
Every inch of motion was agony to Sisyphus’s soul, but he could not stop.
The Gods had stripped him of reason and logic, leaving him with just compulsion and suffering.
When he got to the top, Albert Camus slapped him on the back.
“Well done!” he said, and he pushed the boulder back down the hill.
Sisyphus screamed and chased it.
Camus laughed, jealously.
If Santa’s up at the North Pole, who’s down at the South Pole?
Anti-Santa, of course.
Anti-Santa flies around the world in his anti-sleigh pulled by anti-reindeer and gathers toys from all the good boys and girls.
He fills up his sack, and then goes back to his anti-workshop where the anti-elves smash the toys into teeny tiny bits.
The next morning, the kids wake up to… nothing. Because Anti-Santa goes around just after Santa.
That’s okay, because it’s really your moms and dads who give you presents.
Unless you’re an orphan. Then you get nothing.
Well, maybe charity.
For many years, Baba Yaga’s hut walked around on a pair of gigantic chicken legs.
But a harsh winter forced her to cook and eat one of the legs.
Instead of walking around smoothly on two legs, the hut hopped and wobbled on its single leg. Everything inside the hut was knocked around, and anything fragile was smashed to bits.
The old witch was forced to cook and eat the other leg.
Since she couldn’t find any more chicken legs, she bought a Winnebago.
Not as terrifying-looking as a magical chicken leg hut, but you should see how she drives!
A friend of mine recently underwent a colonoscopy.
They were all freaked out over it. The fasting, purgative, and the discussion about the anesthetic just made it all worse.
I told them how I just laughed through my own colonoscopy preparations and the procedure, and things turned out okay.
So, they went through it all, and they just told me “They found a precancerous polyp.”
That’s great news, I said, precancerous and not cancerous.
“Yes! Thank the gods!” they said.
Except the God Of Precancerous Polyps, of course.
Because he’s a total dick, giving those fucking polyps out to people.
Around Christmastime, people make a deal of Santa trackers. And the weatherman likes to add a Santa animation to the Doppler radar.
But when it comes to the Easter Bunny, does anybody watch that varmint?
They really ought to. Because bunnies can be nasty little creatures, and they have really sharp teeth.
And Easter Eggs have a pretty short shelf life. As pretty as the dye and glitter job is, you do not want to tear open and eat a hard-boiled egg that’s been sitting at the bottom of Peter Cottontail’s basket all night.
Stick to the chocolate ones.